Four strings, G-strings and why is ‘world’ music so boring?

It’s not unusual to see a guitar tech beavering away in a dark corner restringing his master’s axe but I recall the bass player of a particularly pompous metal band striding across the floor toward me, a full set of strings dangling from his outstretched hand, holding E, A, D and G at arms length as if they were diseased entrails.  “Boil them”, he instructed with no please or thank you, adding “I’ll be in the dressing room”.  And with a flick of the curls, he was off.  And boil them we did, you complete and utter arse! With ketchup, vinegar, brown sauce, mustard, disinfectant, salt and pepper, the remains of the mop bucket and a tinkle of something homo sapien.  He never thanked me, and being a man with a Jiminy Cricket on his shoulder, I suppose I’m glad he never did.

Talking of bass players, I won’t name and shame the local plank spanker now in a position of some responsibility at an insurance company.  He neglected to lock the dressing room door whilst the manageress of a popular wine bar was unable to speak but at least they kept it off the stage unlike, whisper it, Rock Bitch.  Honestly, I booked them in all innocence thinking it was nothing more than a topless guitarist.  Couldn’t have been more wrong.  Probably the mildest bit was the Golden Condom competition (won by the sound engineer, I wonder how) in which the winner got to use it on one of the band, but at least that was off stage, unlike everything else.  Foolishly, I had taken the night off and was woken by the local press early next morning asking me about the previous night’s show and was I aware of anything untoward? “No”, says I still half asleep, “Should I be?”.  The reporter said of course not (!) but he also knew that we automatically video-d all performances and asked if he could pop down and get the tape “just for a review”.  Sure enough, “LIVE SEX SHOW AT FIBBERS” said the headline, with the usual harrumphing quotes from councillors, youth leaders and the LVA chairman.  And huge embarrassment for my daughters, teased mercilessly at school the next day. I never did get to see that tape, I guess it’s still at The Yorkshire Evening Press.

And it was the bass player of a scallywag Scottish indie band opening a triple bill with Klaxons and Longblondes from whom we were anxiously diverting a bodybuilding husband looking for his wife. They had travelled from Wales for the gig.  Our man and his companion bravely appeared later with a dusting of grass, and upon this sight the iconic Radio 1 DJ hosting the show took cover in the tour bus.

At least it wasn’t bloody 'World Music' of the I’m-so-right-on type. I just don’t get it.  It seems to be the privileged preserve of the rocket-and-seared-tuna set. Y'know the type – Tristram is in IT and Jemima is a nursery teacher, the kids are called Poppy and Atticus, neither of them smoke but buy fair-trade air fresheners - and there's far too much recycling going on. It's even worse than yawnsome open mic amateur folk nights which is usually real-ale bores singing with their fingers in their ears about dead sailors.  There’s a snotty band around these parts made up of humanities students and they sing about wassailing, ships coming home from o’er the sea and flaxen-haired maidens in the forest.  With all that singing and toasting with Toby jugs it’s a wonder how the swains of old found time to sleep with their kids. So sing about something you know, lads and lasses, and turn your phone off when you’re on stage …

Coming up: The sheer torture of baggy era tribute acts. Which (now) huge band played to twenty people, threw their sandwiches around the stage and had to pushed out of the fire exit. Throwing the office bin and then the furniture at, yes, a bass player. And I really must get around to that twenty thousand quid story – or should I heed those threats last week …